We gather them,
These stolen moments,
These orphaned seconds,
These lost dark minutes.
Stateless, Unattached,
These refugee clicks
With no form or voice
Do not belong here.
We pile them up,
These off cuts of time,
These shards of passing,
This swarf of tempo.
Shreds of interval
And dislocation
With no named event
To give them title.
And with our small words we bind them,
A suture in the wounded day,
To make a tiny poem of the scars.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
We gather them,
These stolen moments,
These orphaned seconds,
These lost dark minutes.
Stateless, Unattached,
These refugee clicks
With no form or voice
Do not belong here.
We pile them up,
These off cuts of time,
These shards of passing,
This swarf of tempo.
Shreds of interval
And dislocation
With no named event
To give them title.
And with our small words we bind them,
A suture in the wounded day,
To make a tiny poem of the scars.
